


Gravity in Suspense

by DreamingAmethystDragons



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slow Burn, Snark, bard!ja'far, in which the merry band of generals is a monster-hunting band
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8977471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAmethystDragons/pseuds/DreamingAmethystDragons
Summary: In a slightly different universe, a young bard meets a party of monster-hunters headed by a charismatic, gold-eyed man.  Ja’far’s encountered all kinds of trouble, and he’s not yet sure if this will be the best or worst kind.





	1. First Glance

Ja’far first sees him, of course, in a bar.

There’s a line that’s far overused and flimsy; surely any bard worth their salt could form better.  There’d probably be mentions of eyes, and limbs, of beating hearts and burning gazes and all that customary jeweled glitter of descriptions.  And it wouldn’t be untrue, there’s the thing, but it seems wrong to use that now.  Not for that man.

Ja’far’s just arrived in the town – a glorified village, really, but well-situated enough to boast a decently-sized inn with a more-than decently populated bar.  This is the kind of place where he makes his money best so he ducks though the doorway, brushing the wood with his knuckles.  Several eyes size him up, then dismiss him; of course, he’s got no visible weapons and clothes that were new a good while ago, but that’s the image he cultivates and it serves him for what he needs.  The only thing to set him apart is the lute strapped to his back.

It’s more boisterous inside than he would have expected; villagers come home after a long day in the fields and travelers well-ready to hit the city a day’s travel away.  The noise washes over him, almost bewildering after days on the road, but already his eyes have found a comfortable enough corner to lounge and perhaps pluck a few chords for anyone willing to toss him a few silvers.  Then the crowd parts around the bar, slightly, and he sees – him.

The name, he won’t learn til later, but he eyes him up – long purple hair, carelessly thrown into a ponytail; fine clothes only slightly torn and mucked by mud; laughing eyes, an easy bark of a voice.  His companions lounge around him in varying states of wariness, from the giant of the man with a worried twist to his lips to match the watchful look in his eyes to the young mage laughing and elbowing her companion who had just sputtered ale down his front.  Their leader reclines against the counter, and Ja’far narrows his eyes – and interesting one, or trouble, he decides, and those things come in pairs.

Golden eyes meet his across the way, just for a fleeting second – but then there’s a tankard lifted briefly in his direction, and fingers gesturing in a come-hither gesture.  Just like that.

Seems it’s going to be the latter, then.


	2. Second Thoughts

The light’s flickering low in the lanterns when Ja’far slings the lute back over his shoulders, fingers fondly slipping against the neck.  Most of the patrons are gone – either into their cups or out of the door, and in most cases a little bit of both.  Ja’far fingers the coins in his pocket and decides that one drink shouldn’t be too much to ask for, but before his hand makes it to the counter his accoster from before reaches over and slaps a silver bit down. 

Ja’far reels back a bit, biting back the urge to smack the coin to the floor.  Instead he throws a narrowed glance to the right, where the man – Sinbad, that’s the name he’d given – was now hiding his face in his mug, eyes closed.  That’s alright, Ja’far can be patient – and as soon as Sinbad lowers his mug, he grits out, “I’m not that desperate for charity, thanks.  Keep your coin.”  Not that he’s well-off enough that he usually refuses coin, but, see, it’s the principle of the thing, and something about this man tells him he’s got to be firm.

Sinbad’s eyes flicker, but his placid expression doesn’t change.  “’S just payment for a performance well-played,” he demurs.  Fool he might seem, Ja’far catches those gold eyes studying him – no feeble, fumbling traveler, that’s for sure.  “Is that so wrong?”

“You already gave me some coin.”  And _that_ payment was a little more generous in of itself than Ja’far was used to.

“It’s a tip.”

Ja’far gives out a grumble – so he’s one of _those_ people then, right – and scoops it off the counter.  The bartender’s watching from a few paces away, looking more curious than what’s good for him.  He tosses it towards Sinbad, and damn if the man doesn’t catch it and lean in to set it down again. 

Ja’far’s quicker than that though.  When Sinbad’s extended he reaches out, snagging the man’s wrist and slamming the dagger he’d slipped from his sleeve a hair’s breadth away from the man’s pulse point.  He releases Sinbad’s arm and slips the coin free from slack fingers, sliding it down towards the clearly entertained barkeeper.  “Something light, please.  Keep the change.”

He takes a welcome sip when the mug is placed in front of him, ignoring the look in gold eyes beside him.  He’s not sure he wants to know, initially – and when Ja’far finally relents and eyes the man out of the corner of his vision, there’s not annoyance but a kind of wonder.

Ja’far doesn’t stay long after that, slipping out as easily as he arrived, but as he curls up on a rooftop under the moon that intake of breath and the touch of warm skin lingers in his fingertips.


	3. Third Impression

He’s woken by a rock skittering inches away from his nose. 

Ja’far jolts up, fingers already fastened on the hilt of the knife strapped to his lower arm.  The sky today is a pale blue, the kind that signifies rain on the way, and the wind brings a biting tang of salt from the south.  The street below, however, is silent, so he squints up at the sky with a wary confusion before another rock pings against the roof tiles several feet below. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles under his breath, gathering his wits like he might a rucksack and rolling to his knees so he can shuffle down and peer under the ledge.  Ja’far’s already had the unpleasant inclination that he already knew who it could be (guardsmen, after all, were usually a little more efficient) so he’s utterly unsurprised to see the gold-eyed man from last night below.

The guy must have an unusually high alcohol tolerance (or a very good hangover potion in that flask at his hip), for his eyes brighten when Ja’far scowls down.  Whatever.  When Sinbad opens his mouth, Ja’far cuts across him.  “Rocks.  Really, who throws rocks at someone who’s sleeping?  I should kick your ass through your throat.”

“…Oh.” Something that is probably consternation flits across Sinbad’s face.  “Well – I didn’t hit you, right? No harm done.” And then he smiles, bright and for all the world like they are friends.

Which.  “Just because you bought me a drink last night does not make us pals.” 

“No, well – I had a proposal, if you’d hear me out.”

“No.”  Ja’far finishes strapping his lute to his back and neatly drops down from the roof, making sure to splatter Sinbad’s boots with mud.  He’s not getting any more sleep today, obviously, so he may as well head out before the rain hits.  This village was only a wayside stop anyway.

To his (unwillingly given) credit, Sinbad is unabashed by Ja’far’s immediate refusal.  “You aren’t even curious?” he pokes, following right beside Ja’far as he makes his way down the alley.  “You don’t even-”

“I know your kind.”  Ja’far side-eyes him.  “I’ve got places to go, now, if you don’t mind.”

The man actually pouts.  “You do not.  Just a wandering minstrel – you don’t fool me either.  But I was going to ask you if you’d want a traveling companion.  You’re heading for the city, right?  A lone traveler attracts attention no matter who they are, and you look like someone who’d rather avoid that – not that, of course, that I’m saying you couldn’t hold your own in a battle.  My buddies and I, we’re going -”

Ja’far bats Sinbad’s hand away from his shoulder.  “Don’t touch me.  So, you’re saying you want-”

“-You to travel with us for a short distance.  Fun, right?  Good, it’s decided.”  And he finally claps his hand to Ja’far’s shoulder.  “Now, there’s a vendor down this way, and if you’d go with me I’ll get you breakfast; there’s a guy selling Parthevian pastries and I think I need one or twelve.”

And somehow Ja’far finds himself going with him.  It’s the breakfast, he tells himself.  Can’t refuse free food, right?


	4. Division in Fourths

After a quick breakfast and a quick rendezvous for supplies, Ja’far indeed finds himself walking out of the town with company.  The greetings he gets are hurried in varying levels of interest but not unkind, as everyone seems more than ready to get going.  There is one mage, Yamuraiha, sharp-eyed and eternally amused; Pisti, who is either a rouge or an animal tamer (or both, he’s not sure which); the young brash swordsman Sharrkan and the quiet spearsman Spartos.  Then there’s Masrur, who carries no weapons and merely nods when introduced, and the giant of a man Hinahoho who gives Ja’far a pat on the back that almost sends his knees buckling.  There’s one more of them, Sinbad comments in passing, but they’re meeting back up with him at the city.  He doesn’t elaborate, but Ja’far doesn’t inquire further.

It doesn’t really matter, after all.  He’s only going to travel with these people a few days before he’s on his own again.

He watches, though.  They move together as they talk – not exactly a coherent, solid force, but with a familiarity.  Sharrkan says something outrageous and Pisti shoots him down; Spartos and Yamuraiha discuss something together, heads bent together and hands gesturing.  Sinbad is the clear leader and catalyst, nonetheless, and Ja’far keeps finding his attention drifting back to him – the slope of his shoulders, the worn sheath of his sword, the easy twist of a smile at his lips.

When Sinbad drops back to the tail of the group, where Ja’far has been trailing behind, it’s a little before midday.  Ja’far had unslung his lute from the back and is in the process of picking though scales – C, F, A minor – when a shoulder nudges against his.  Sinbad’s eyes are curious but not prying when Ja’far finally deigns to look up.  “Hanging okay back here?” Sinbad inquires.  “I know this section of the road’s kind of boring – we probably won’t see any monsters til evening.”  If he’s not much mistaken, and he rarely is, Sinbad seems a bit disappointed by that.

“Searching for a good bracing battle of life and death, are we?”

A laugh is all he receives at first.  “Not that I want to say _yes_ , but we are bounty hunters, so.  I guess that’s what we do.”

“Are you the ‘protect the people’ kind of hunter, then, or the ‘adrenaline junkie’ kind?  Because if it’s the latter I’m turning back around.”

Sinbad only smiles. 

“I’m serious.  I am _not_ saving your ass when you’re the one who dragged me along.”

“I’ll try to contain my enjoyment, then,” the hunter replies lightly, and Ja’far has to repress a snort of laughter.  Sinbad must have seen the amusement in his eyes, though, and he doesn’t waste a moment.  “Hey, is that a smile I see?  I must be doing something right!”

Ja’far groans and reaches over to shove Sinbad forward.  The hunter stumbles a bit but then jogs forward, laughing.  “I’ll bother you later, then!” he calls back playfully, and Ja’far prefers to squint up at the sky rather than respond.  It’s a good way to hide a smile, anyway. 


	5. Fifth Demonstration

Shortly after Sinbad had dropped back to talk to him, two of the others approach him.  He’s strumming softly when suddenly there’s a person to either side – Yamuraiha to his left, Sharrkan to his right.  He eyes them with a small amount of suspicion, but raises an eyebrow at Yamuraiha in inquiry.

“Thought we’d drop back and chat,” she supplies easily.  Already, he feels like they could be friends – you know, if he was planning on traveling with them for more than two days.  “You’ve been rather quiet, so sorry if we haven’t been including you.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs.  “I’m used to traveling alone.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to keep to yourself,” she says with a small smile. 

At a loss, Ja’far tilts his head forward, fingers scratching at where his knife hilt chafes against his arm – then scowls and Sharrkan bumps into him.  The movement reminds him of Sinbad.  “So you’re a bard?” Sharrkan pushes.  “Doesn’t seem like a very efficient way to fight, if you ask me.”

Yamuraiha groans under her breath on his other side, and Ja’far frowns carefully.  “Not with that kind of mindset.  Are you saying magicians aren’t powerful?”

“No, no – I mean, Yamu can kick some ass, that’s for sure, but what are you going to do with a lute against a griffin or a group of archers?  One hit and it’s broken.”

“I don’t go around _smacking people with my lute_. Don’t be an idiot.”

“It’s a form of magic, right?”  Yamuraiha cuts in.  Yep, she’s at the top of his favorite people list right now.  “It’s not like physical combat.  Sharrkan’s understanding extends to hitting something until it stops getting up, so excuse him.”

“I know _strategy_ , I’m not stupid either,” Sharrkan bites right back at her.  Ja’far squashes the impulse to slide away from being the middleman.  “I just don’t see how playing a tune is an efficient fighting style.”

“It is magic,” Ja’far softly supplies, ghosting his fingers over the strings.  “You imbue a specific emotion into the song, with a thread of magic, then extend it around you – I can bewilder with that, or cause monsters to ignore me.  I could cause physical harm as well, but that kind of talent is – difficult.”

“You can’t do it, then?”

“I can, I just prefer not to.”  That type is… painful, in a word.

Yamuraiha is nodding, but Sharrkan seems unconvinced.  “Still seems less effective than a good ol’ sword.”

“You’d think,” Ja’far mutters.  He’s usually not for physical demonstrations, but for once, he thinks, he’ll make an exception.  He takes a few swifter steps forward and strums, humming, then lets his voice soar forth.  It’s a short melody, mournful, and he pictures the lonely seascapes of the north, unbroken for miles.  His lower arms twinge, and distantly he registers that the rest of the party has stopped, staring back. 

The road seems quieter when he stops, and he looks back over his shoulder.  He’d been concentrating the effect on Sharrkan, and he quirks an eyebrow at the swordsman staring at him.  “You’re crying.”

“I’m…”  Sharrkan raises his hand to his face and looks immediately startled.  “I, my heart feels like it’s thudding in my chest…”

Ja’far shakes his head and turns back around, ignoring the looks that the others are sending him.  “Next time, my friend, don’t question how someone chooses to fight.”


	6. Sixth Battle

The sun is resting on the dusky bowl of the horizon by the time they run into any trouble.

They’ve made good time, at least, stopping only after midday for a quick bite from the ration packs passed around.  Ja’far’s still not sold on why he ended up traveling with this ragtag team, but they leave him alone, for the most part, only trying to include him in their banter every now and then.  He’s dealt with worse, in any case. 

They hear the trouble before they see it – which, in Ja’far’s experience, is far preferable to the other way around.  Sharp yapping, shrieks – not human, certainly, but not reflecting any kindness from the local fauna.  The others hear it to, but aside from a few comments about Sharrkan’s stomach they press forward, seemingly unconcerned.  The cries only get louder as they travel onward, however, and Ja’far discretely touches the hilt of the blade strapped to his arm.

“We’ve got visitors,” calls Pisti, suddenly, and Ja’far pauses with the rest to gaze over the plains.  At first, he almost misses the movement, but then he sees eyes, glittering in the dusk – then bodies, staggering and doglike.  When the pack sees them, a choir of howls pulses in the distance between them.

“Looks like a fight’s to go down,” Sinbad voice rumbles to his right.  Ja’far doesn’t turn his head away from the advancing forms, but he hears the rasp of Sinbad’s sword being drawn and the hum of magic behind him.  Ja’far considers, and unslings the lute from his back.

“Remember what I said earlier, about saving your ass,” he mutters, and he hears Sinbad laugh quietly.  Jerk.  His fingers find the strings, and he draws out a minor chord. 

The creatures have been drawing closer this whole time – not pure dogs or wolves, but mangy looking beasts.  The one closest to them pauses – not the largest, but perhaps the leader.  It stares, bares its teeth – and by unspoken cue, there is moment of silence before they leap.

The hunters, to their benefit, leap into the fray almost as easily.  Hinahoho’s monster of a sword sweeps into two monsters in one blow, and he sees Spartos dispatch another with a swift blow to the chest.  Sinbad is a whirlwind, pivoting, his scimitar flashing in the dusky light as he takes on the leader and several others at a time – and there is no fear in his eyes, but that wry bark of a laugh on his lips.

Ja’far dodges and kicks one beast in the snout, snapping its head back, and he wets his lips and sings.  _Fatigue_ , he sings – of draining sorrow, of energy flowing away from the heart, of the muddiness of sleep and lazy days.  The creature in front of him staggers back up, and he can see its confusion, feel its limbs turning leaden and cold.  He dances back as it lunges sloppily forwards, planting its muzzle in the dirt, and then Pisti darts past, sinking a blade into its back. 

His song has affected the others, too, and in the span of a few minutes the pack’s numbers have lessened quite noticeably.  Ja’far halts his singing, looking around – the bodies of beasts litter the road, but no one seems hurt save for a few scratches.  Sinbad is still trading blows with the leader, but that appears to be the last one – and it slinks back, snarling as Sinbad bears down on it, almost contemptuously blocking its swipes. 

Which is all well and good, but...  Ja’far watches, then puts his fingers to his lips and gives a sharp, shrill whistle of challenge, and sees the beast’s eyes whip towards him.  That’s all the further it gets, though, before Ja’far’s thrown dagger is buried in its skull.

“Nice shot,” murmurs Pisti besides him as Sinbad retrieves the dagger, straightening with raised eyebrows in Ja’far’s direction.  Ja’far ignores both the comment and the look, trudging forward to take it back. 

“Well, that was fun,” Sinbad announces, and Ja’far does believe that the man is sincere about that.  “Let’s go a few minutes down the road and pitch camp.  We’ll take that as our cue for this evening.”  He winks at Ja’far, and while a week before Ja’far would have been more happy to show him his expertise at throwing daggers again (with Sinbad’s head as his target) he just shakes his head. 

Camaraderie in battle, he thinks.  Nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a series of ficlets, and cross-posted to Tumblr.  
> Thanks for reading!


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